


Soundwave Week 2020 Fills

by helloshepard



Series: helloshepard's TRANSFORMERS fics (2020- ? ) [17]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Cyberverse, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, BYOB (Build Your Own Bot), Canon-Typical Racism, Conjunx Ritus, Cyberverse Season 3 spoilers, Gen, Genetic Engineering, Grief/Mourning, Hardlining, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Soundwave Week 2020, Telepathy, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloshepard/pseuds/helloshepard
Summary: Written for Soundwave Week 2020.Day 1: "Loyalty" (IDW Cosmos/Soundwave)Day 2: "Creation" (TFP Soundwave/Shockwave)Day 3: "Misadventure" (Cyberverse, Soundwave/Hot Rod)Day 4: "Cassettes" (IDW, Soundwave & Cassettes)Day 5: "Reconnection" (IDW, Prowl/Cosmos/Soundwave)Day 6: "Abilities" (IDW, Ratbat & Soundwave)Day 7: "Redemption" (IDW, Soundwave & Ravage)
Relationships: Cassettes & Soundwave, Cosmos/Prowl/Soundwave, Cosmos/Soundwave, Hot Rod/Soundwave, Ravage & Soundwave, Shockwave/Soundwave, Soundwave & Ratbat
Series: helloshepard's TRANSFORMERS fics (2020- ? ) [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789297
Comments: 33
Kudos: 148
Collections: Soundwave Week 2020





	1. Day 1: "Loyalty" (coswave)

“After Galvatron,” Soundwave said. “I _swore_ I would never pledge loyalty to another.Yet, I find myself doing just that.”

“Gee _thanks.”_

“You understand what I mean.”

“Course I do.” Were his battlemask not retracted, Soundwave would have had to content himself with _imagining_ the shy smile plastered to Cosmos’ face. As it stood, he was treated to the sight—small and uncertain, but beautiful. “I love you too.”

“Little Autobot…” Soundwave couldn’t shake the sense that this would have been the perfect opportunity to sweep Cosmos off his feet, were Cosmos not nearly twice his size. Instead, Soundwave retracted his own battlemask. It wasn’t the first time Cosmos had seen his uncovered face, though it still didn’t stop him from tracing the edge of one of his deeper scars. “As long as you will have it: I swear my loyalty to you.”

“I don’t want your loyalty,” Cosmos said, and honestly, Soundwave shouldn’t have been surprised, because Cosmos was nothing if unpredictable—one of the many things Soundwave loved about him. “Your loyalty has brought the galaxy to its knees. And I don’t want that.”

Soundwave waited.

Cosmos’ hand moved down to Soundwave’s shoulder—the place where, until so recently, his cannon had been mounted. A proper non-wartime conjunx ceremony wasn’t the place for non-deep-wired weapons, after all, though Soundwave still kept a blaster tucked away in his subspace. Just in case. And he knew Cosmos had done the same.

“I brought the galaxy to its knees for others,” Soundwave said. “You know I would do the same for you.”

“I know you would,” Cosmos’ voice was soft. “And I know you love me enough never to do that.”

It was true, though it hurt to admit. His former leaders—his anchors, keeping him moored, preventing him from drifting off into the overwhelming cacophony of his own abilities—had obtained his loyalty. Cosmos had obtained his spark.

Cosmos hummed, thoughtfully. The Autobot’s free hand had wandered down to linger just above the Decepticon sigil affixed to his chest.

His cassettes had wormed their way into his spark from that first day in Dead End, and every day after that, over the last five million years of their association. The Decepticon cause had taken a literal piece of his spark—torn a part of the casing from the housing, warped it and molded it until it was nearly unrecognizable. And now, Cosmos had laid claim to the rest.

Soundwave could live—very happily—with that.

He wondered at the irony of it—his act of devotion, the best thing he could offer his would-be conjunx—eagerly offered, yet cast aside.

“Soundwave’s act of devotion,” he said, slipping into old, familiar speech patterns. “Rejected. Traditionally: requires restarting the _ritus.”_

“As much fun as a three-century courtship has been,” Cosmos said, “I think I’m about ready to get it over with. You?”

Soundwave nodded, then shook his head.

“Then, Soundwave: has final offer.”

Confusion blossomed in Cosmos’ mind.

“I…I’m—um, okay?”

“Cosmos: lonely.” Soundwave continued before Cosmos could protest. “ _Previously_ lonely. Isolated. Unheard. Soundwave: promises to listen. Say my name—“

“‘And I will hear you.’” Cosmos’ grip on his shoulder tightened. “I remember.”

“Statement: _not_ an empty promise.”

“I never thought it was.” Cosmos leaned forward and closed the distance between them. “Never for a moment.”


	2. Day 2: "Creation" post-canon tfp wavewave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: "Creation" - Soundwave and Shockwave ponder the creation of Cybertron's first newbuild in millions of years.

The quiet whir of a t-cog activating and the near-silent impact of a mech hitting the ground were his only indications that Soundwave had returned.

Shockwave did not look up from his work: there was no need to. Soundwave knew Shockwave knew he had arrived, and judging by the faintest tingle in his field, his trip had been successful.

His datapad chimed. Shockwave closed out the latest of many debugging programs and set the datapad aside before turning back to face Soundwave.

Soundwave lingered at the opposite end of their makeshift lab, leaning casually against one of the work tables. Knowing his partner’s penchant for making a seat on any available surface, Shockwave had cleared that table of all scrapped armor and raw protometal.

In his hands, Soundwave held a spark. Not _directly_ in his hands, of course—it was contained safely in a sterile storage capsule, protected from the acrid troposphere. After this undertaking was completed to their satisfaction, it might be prudent to lend his engineering expertise to Ratchet and Perceptor, if their device to clear Cybertron’s lower atmosphere of acid and hazardous waste were not yet finished.

Shockwave spared a moment to imagine the sight of Soundwave chasing the sparks across the stratosphere. Even the concept of it was enough to set his own spark spinning. He pictured Soundwave catching the spark in his hands, tumbling in free-fall back towards the ground before transforming again in a single fluid motion.

Perhaps one day, he would be privileged to witness it.

Gently, Shockwave took the capsule. The spark—such a bright blue it appeared nearly white (the same spark type as his own—was that why Shockwave had selected this spark? Or, to permit a second of fanciful, romantic notion: had the spark sensed Soundwave was seeking one diametrically opposite his own, a perfect complement to the burning orange of Soundwave’s own spark?) seemed to react to his presence, bumping impatiently against the adamantium-coated casing.

“This will do,” Shockwave said. Soundwave hummed his assent. He brushed his spindly fingers across Shockwave’s wrist, lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary.

Believing that they needed to comport themselves was an old habit, though not one that was in any danger of fading away. They were alone: any cameras placed in the lab had been set up by Soundwave himself, more out of habit than any real necessity.

Were he able, Shockwave would have smiled. He watched Soundwave examine the newbuild’s frame. Most would have considered such a sight horrendous; seeing a mech gunmetal gray, lying mostly disassembled on a laboratory table. But Shockwave had never contented himself with _most._

Curious, Soundwave tapped the newbuild's legs. Considering their state, it was difficult to see, but both of them recognized the familiar hint of limbs that would be digitigrade once they were fully developed.

Shockwave registered a quick burst of surprise passing through Soundwave’s field.

“You should not be surprised. Your CNA _is_ half of this Cybertronian’s makeup.”

In truth, it would have been far, far easier to utilize traditional CNA splicing: safe, randomized, _neutral._ It was how Shockwave and Ratchet intended to repopulate Cybertron once the particulars of the armistice were sorted out. The alternative: taking two specific samples of CNA and creating a new, healthy life form had presented a plethora of difficulties.

It would have been far easier simply to clone Soundwave. But his partner had resisted, and Shockwave had never been able to refuse him. So Shockwave had taken two samples: one from himself, and one from Soundwave, and gotten to work.

Aside from Ratchet or Knock Out completing their own projects ahead of schedule, this mech would be the first addition to Cybertron’s non-Predacon population in millions of years. He and Soundwave would provide everything it needed to survive its first, fragile developmental stages. This Cybertronian would be born in a lab—it could not climb to the surface from the planet’s core, shedding weak protometal and swapping it out for stronger alloys as it traveled. In addition to basic data packets, Shockwave would have to provide it with physical upgrades.

He looked forward to the challenge.

Leaving Soundwave to finish his impromptu examination of the newbuild, Shockwave took the spark capsule and gently placed it in a stasis pod. He did not technically _need_ to—sparks were strong things, and in a hermetically sealed container, there was little anyone could do that would hurt it, but still…he did not want to cause it undue stress.

He took a moment to examine one of the datapads Soundwave had been working on. It was one of the advanced software patches—containing schematics for a several traditional Cybertronian altmodes, as well as a fine-motor update allowing it to handle the more delicate instruments in Shockwave’s lab, if it so desired.

Hm. He had not begun this project with the intention of building a mere _lab assistant—_ if that was all he desired, he would simply have trained a Vehicon or two. That the newbuild might _want_ to remain, to work with him…Shockwave had not considered that.

But Soundwave had _._

Shockwave set the datapad down and turned back to Soundwave.

Soundwave finished his examination of the newbuild’s frame and was looking up at Shockwave expectantly. Shockwave leaned forward, allowing Soundwave to bump the thicker part of his chevron against Shockwave’s helm. His visor flickered, then displayed a ❤︎. 

An Earth glyph. Personally, Shockwave had no use for the things, but Soundwave _was_ fond of them. He traced the edge of the image, watching the screen flicker under the pressure of his claw. Unbothered, Soundwave remained still until Shockwave withdrew, then grabbed his hand insistently. 

“I must return to my duties,” Shockwave said. “…in a moment.”

Soundwave nodded, and Shockwave wondered if he was smiling. 


	3. Day 3: Misadventure (soundrod, cyberverse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Hot Rod said. "You’re probably wondering how I got here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last two chapters were unbeta'd, this one is really, really unbeta'd. Technically takes place within the little universe of my Cyberverse fix-it fics; specifically as a sequel to [this one.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100856)
> 
> cw for brief description of ptsd, arguing.

“So,” Hot Rod said. "You’re probably wondering how I got here."

Soundwave didn’t reply, but he _did_ cross his arms, which was just as good. The music died down to nearly inaudible, but the waveforms of Hot Rod’s song still danced across Soundwave’s shoulder display.

“So I was with ‘bee this morning, and we took bets deciding who would finish our rounds first.” Hot Rod began. “And _I_ figured, I might as well pave new roads and take the newly-established shortcut between Neo-Peptex and Helex. Except! It turns out, the bots that created the shortcut were _fliers!_ And didn’t know the ground was gonna give way the second a bot drove through the canyon. Weird, huh? So, I figured I might as well give you a call, and—”

“You are on the border of Decepticon territory.”

Ah. _That_ was why Soundwave hadn’t come closer. Hot Rod had been patrolling the fence perimeter, but after an hour hanging upside down, he had gotten _slightly_ turned around.

Hot Rod grinned.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Soundwave strode forward. In one swift motion, he grabbed Hot Rod’s hand and yanked him free. Hot Rod tumbled to the ground, then sat up and surveyed the opening he had so recently fallen through.

“You will need to walk through these tunnels,” Soundwave said. “Climbing back to the surface will the ground is so fragile will only result in another fall.”

“I know.” Hot Rod tried to shake off the feeling of his protoform crawling under his armor. The tunnels were dark, but not pitch black. And even if they weren’t, Hot Rod, like all Cybertronians, was equipped with lights aplenty.

“Wanna come with?” He asked Soundwave, anyway.

He wasn’t surprised when Soundwave followed. For all Soundwave’s bluster about factions and enemy lines, Hot Rod had been nursing the suspicion that Soundwave missed working together just as much as Hot Rod did. Neither of them were suited to stagnant periods of awkward ceasefire—privately, Hot Rod thanked the stars he had been in stasis for the last few million years, rather than do…whatever Windblade and Perceptor and Bumblebee had been up to while the rest of the _Ark’s_ crew slept. He and Soundwave preferred _action._ A concrete goal. An ending.

Even if that was just walking through a tunnel.

Hot Rod activated one of his lights. Soundwave tilted his head but said nothing.

“Is it too much to hope for, I dunno—a rockslide? Just to extend this meetup a _little_ longer?”

Soundwave scoffed. “I will not remain once your Autobot friends are dispatched to rescue you.”

“My ‘Autobot friends’ were your friends once too,” Hot Rod sniped. “Or did you forget Whirl and Perceptor? Or Clobber?”

“I do not have friends.”

_Ouch._ Hot Rod stepped to the side and nudged Soundwave with his shoulder. “What about you and me, then? What are we?”

“Co-commanders.” Soundwave hesitated. “Allies.”

“Aw.” Hot Rod tried to keep his voice light. “I bet you say that to every bot you ‘face in a training simulator.” And in the caves outside Iacon. And at the far end of the planet, where no bot bothered to go unless it was for a patrol. And—

“Do not make me regret that.”

Hot Rod grabbed Soundwave’s arm and pulled him back. _“Do_ you, though?”

Soundwave hesitated. Hot Rod scoffed and shoved him away.

“I can find my own way home.”

* * *

Hot Rod walked until he could no longer hear the music, until his sensors detected no trace of Soundwave—or Laserbeak, for that matter—before giving in and slumping against the tunnel wall.

Part of him had hoped that Soundwave was just playing hard to get; that his icy facade of apathy would melt in time, because he was _Hot Rod,_ and because fire melted ice, didn’t it?

Hot Rod looked at the unyielding tunnels and wondered if he had mistaken ice for stone.

It was fine! It was _fine—_ he hadn’t told ‘bee about what he and Soundwave had done. No one knew about them, except for the bots who’d been in the resistance, and they wouldn’t tell a soul. Whirl and Perceptor were too polite, Clobber was too loyal to him, and privately, Hot Rod wasn’t certain if Dead End _knew_ anything had happened between him and Soundwave, considering how the only thing _he_ seemed to pay attention to back then was Perceptor.

It was fine.

Hot Rod stood. He shone his light on the tunnel floor, giving in to the irrational fear that Cybertron’s revitalization might have missed this section of the planet in particular, leaving more toxic pools of energon in his path.

It was stupid. This whole _thing_ was stupid.

“Hot Rod.”

“ _‘You’re_ stupid,” Hot Rod said, then realized he had spoken aloud. “Oh. Uh.”

“I will take that under advisement.” Soundwave moved to step forward, then thought better of it and remained in place. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” Hot Rod hoped he didn’t sound _too_ upset. “About getting home? Or about _regrets?”_

“The latter.” Soundwave crossed his arms. The waveforms on his display fell flat. “I should not have said that.”

“Huh.” Hot Rod blinked. “I didn’t know you _could_ apologize.”

“I am being serious.”

“So am I.”

Soundwave sighed. “I will walk you to the end of the tunnel. Back to your side of the planet. And later, we will talk.”

“Look—“ Hot Rod dared take a step forward. “Wait, how would we talk? Unless you’re coming over to the Autobot’s side.”

“Do not be foolish.” Soundwave tossed over a datachip. “My personal communications frequency.”

“Oh.” Hot Rod had Soundwave’s official frequency, but he had a _lot_ of bots’ official frequencies. He tucked the chip into his subspace, half afraid it would dissolve into dust if he was too rough with it. “Uh, thanks.”

Without another word, Soundwave turned and continued down the tunnel.

Hot Rod followed.


	4. Day 4: Cassettes (IDW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Cassettes (IDW) - Soundwave and the cassettes get their first apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: this was supposed to be a fluffy, prose-y piece about soundwave and the cassettes dancing, then it turned into an angsty piece about rumble and frenzy leaving for caminus/Cybertron ~~to pursue their movie career~~ so frenzy and barricade could hook up, but then I wrote half of it and was like 'nah', and eventually circled back to /something/ resembling the original concept. This is probably gonna be the shortest piece of the bunch.

So.

They have a room now.

Not just a _room,_ but a fully-furnished habsuite, complete with washracks, a small energon dispenser, recharge slabs and perches aplenty.

_Home._

He’s never had a home. None of them had—before this, the closest was a rented apartment in one of Ratbat’s many buildings, for the twins, it was the barracks in the mines.

This? This is _theirs._

Soundwave deploys the cassettes, and slowly, they explore. Ravage stretches, then jumps up on the largest of the recharge slabs (Soundwave’s, of course). Laserbeak and Buzzsaw glide to the perches and peer down at their lowly grounder counterparts (eventually, the one opposite the door, halfway up the wall, will be the favored one, but for now, every perch deserves equal consideration). The twins examine their surroundings with equal parts awe and derision before reaching into their subspaces and pulling out all the loot they’ve accumulated over the years.

He _had_ asked if Rumble and Frenzy wanted their own quarters. The Senate is long dead, and there is no real reason for the twins to remain. Soundwave had _hoped_ they would, of course—they’re loud and vulgar and crass, but it’s been long enough that Soundwave has trouble imagining life without them.

Thankfully, Frenzy and Rumble had exchanged looks, before scoffing and saying the boss won’t get rid of them _that_ easy.

Soundwave thinks about that moment a lot.

Leaving his cassettes to explore the habsuite’s furnishings, Soundwave inspects the apartment’s security. Per his specifications, the habsuite is soundproofed—Starscream’s residence is just across the hall, and the less he sees of the Decepticon’s first lieutenant unless absolutely necessary, the better.

Despite the soundproofing, it takes a few days for Soundwave to work up the courage to play the music. None of them have ever had the privacy needed to hear music—not the way Soundwave privately thinks music is _meant_ to be heard.

Not until now.

Soundwave has a moment to fear the soundproofing won’t be enough to muffle the deepest vibrations, the ones that rattle the half-empty cubes and trinkets scattered across the floor.

The twins whoop, standing on their bed (the largest one—Soundwave and Ravage have been relegated to one of the secondary slabs, but Soundwave won’t begrudge them _that._ There are so many other things to concern himself with.)

Soundwave taps his foot, watching the crackling music notes crawl up the walls, feeling the heady taste of rhythm on the tip of his tongue.

After the war, Soundwave thinks he wants nothing but _this—_ to stand amongst the crashing waves of deafening music, so loud it’s almost (almost) a struggle to feel anyone but his cassettes. It won’t happen, of course—he’s proven himself too invaluable to the cause to be allowed to simply retire into relative obscurity.

But for now, he can dance.


	5. Day 5: "Reconnection" prowlcoswave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a ghost living in the Acid Wastes. Cosmos and Prowl go to investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not canon to the endgame of my regular prowlcoswave fics. This is more like...an au of an au?
> 
> cw: grief/mourning, temporary character death,

His day goes like this:

  1. wake up (alone)
  2. grab energon
  3. find Prowl, persuade him to drink energon
  4. slog through a shift mindlessly mapping New Cybertron
  5. repeat steps 2-3, except this time it’s _Prowl_ persuading him to eat
  6. consider going through ~~their~~ Soundwave’s stuff—the things the cassettes won’t touch. Decide to put it off for another day.
  7. fall asleep (not alone)
  8. repeat



It’s not a _bad_ routine. Prowl’s…he’s not _happy,_ but he’s not the pile of misery he had been for those long, long months when Cosmos was stuck in the medcenter, and he’s _nothing_ like the inconsolable mess they both were after the funeral.

Soundwave’s absence cut through them, leaving the edges so torn and ragged, it would be impossible to repair them. And his absence wasn’t _supposed_ to be repaired—according to the little Camien therapist Rodimus had hired to meet with anyone who’d lost someone during Unicron’s attack (and, hadn’t _everyone?_ Privately, Cosmos felt awful for the mech.) the grief was _meant_ to be felt. Meant to be experienced. According to her, in time, it would fade to an ache.

Now, it was burning, crackling thing. He finds himself halfway through his shift, suspended in orbit, wondering what Soundwave would think of the new canyons formed at the edge of Uraya before realizing it doesn’t matter. Soundwave’s _gone._ Dead. So dead there hadn’t even been a body left to smelt. Jetfire had found some piece of his armor that everyone suspected was a part of his insignia. _That_ had gone in the smelter, because their _ritus_ hadn’t been completed.

It helps, knowing Prowl’s dealing with it about as well as Cosmos. He’s rounded up what remains of the cassettes to scout the landscape while Cosmos maps from above, and he spends the rest of his time breaking up fights in the Autobot-Decepticon district of New Iacon.

So it’s a little surprising when Cosmos comes home one day to find Prowl waiting for him.

“You up for a mission?” Prowl asks, and Cosmos just nods dumbly.

He takes a minute to down a cube of energon, and then they head out.

Prowl sends him the notes as they make the journey from Iacon to Stanix. Settlers in Fort Syck and Yuss have been reporting a _ghost_ of all things, lingering at the edges of the Acid Wastes. It’s corporeal until it’s not, and it _sings_ so loud it makes a mech’s processor hurt to stand too close. Of course, no one’s ever captured a clear recording—of either the ‘ghost’ or its singing.

Other than that, they don’t talk.

Which is fine—there isn’t anything _to_ talk about. Except there _is—_ he knows Prowl will listen; not as well as Soundwave used to, but he won’t flat out ignore him.

He doesn’t really want to talk, though.

So they don’t.

They arrive in Yuss late enough to warrant renting out a hotel room for a night. It’s not accommodating enough to have adjustable recharge slabs, so Prowl takes the bed, and Cosmos sleeps on the floor.

In the middle of the night, Cosmos wakes to find Prowl sleeping on top of him. He watches Prowl for a moment, watching the way his jaw clenches in response to some dream., before settling back into recharge.

In the morning, they’re back on the road (Prowl is, anyway. Cosmos is flying.), heading for the border of Yuss and the Wastes.

Prowl stops a group of mechs to ask about the ghost (have they seen him? No. Have they heard of him? Absolutely.), so Cosmos arrives first.

These Acid Wastes are different from the ones on Cybertron— _their_ Cybertron, now as dead as Soundwave—with cliffs and mechaflora aplenty. There’s more than enough places for a ‘ghost’—hoax or otherwise—to hide.

“Um, Prowl,” Cosmos says, when Prowl finally arrives. “Why’re we here? Investigating urban legends isn’t exactly a part of your job description.”

“Honestly?”

Cosmos nods.

“I…don’t know.” Prowl looks away. “I wanted a break. From—” He makes a vague motion with one hand, gesturing in the direction of Iacon. “That.”

“You can just say ‘vacation’.” It’s the closest thing to a _joke_ Cosmos has said in months.

Prowl’s lips twitch.

“Vacation. Working vacation.”

“Sure, Prowl.” Cosmos pats the other Autobot’s shoulder. “Sure.”

It quickly becomes clear that neither of them really know how to go about ‘investigating’ something like this—Cosmos picks up abbarent movement in his peripheral vision once or twice, which he makes note of. But other than that, the Acid Wastes are just…the Acid Wastes.

It’s quiet, though, and Cosmos finds himself wondering if that’s what both of them need. He devotes the second half of the day—which mostly consists of him sitting in the shade, watching Prowl take poring over datapads and articles _—_ planning an _actual_ vacation. Definitely not to Earth. But he’s heard good things about some non-Galactic Council worlds that he thinks Prowl would _probably_ enjoy.

The sun is setting when he hears it.

And the worst thing is—he _recognizes it._ And it’s clear Prowl does, too, because he freezes, sensory panels hiking straight up as he tries to determine the source of the sound.

The music.

They recognize it because they were the ones who _found it._ They—and Jazz, who kept a copy for himself, but he’s living in Kaon, so far away it’s not even worth wondering whether or not they’re somehow hearing _his_ music—found it, and gave it to Soundwave as—

Not for the first time that day, Cosmos catches a flicker in the corner of his optic.

This time, he whips around fast enough and sees him. _Him._

It’s not Soundwave—not completely. This mech is translucent, shimmering like an optical illusion, as though he’ll fade away when the light hits him. But Cosmos would recognize him anywhere: the outline of his shoulders, the way his head tilts when he’s looking at them.

“It’s you.” Prowl’s voice is quiet. _Reverent._ “You survived.”

Cosmos can’t help himself. Prowl’s frozen in place, so Cosmos takes a step forward, hand outstretched.

His hand passes through Soundwave. Cosmos draws back, but what else did he _expect?_ If Soundwave were fully corporeal, he would’ve said something. Found _them._

Soundwave looks disappointed, so Cosmos reaches forward again.

This time, he feels something—were he not built to receive the weakest of signals in deep space, he would not have felt it. It’s the faintest crackle against his his plating. The ghost of a touch.

It’s enough.

_“How?”_

His voice cracks halfway through the word. Soundwave shrugs and extends a hand and brushes it against the side of Cosmos’ helm.

In unison, they turn to Prowl. Who’s on the phone.

Cosmos nearly laughs, though it likely would’ve come out as a sob instead. Prowl is yelling—at Perceptor most likely, or maybe Brainstorm—demanding they drop whatever they’re doing and get down to the Acid Wastes, but he freezes when Soundwave approaches.

As he had with Cosmos, Soundwave stretches out his hand and tries to touch the side of Prowl’s helm. Cosmos doesn’t think Prowl’s sensors aren’t sensitive enough to pick up the touch, but he sinks into the touch nonetheless.

Something clicks back into place.

The torn, ragged edges of Soundwave’s absence are sliced away and something new slots into place. It’s not what it used to be—Cosmos isn’t sure if things could _ever_ go back to the way things were all those years ago, when the station still orbited Jupiter.

Cosmos takes in Prowl, who’s staring at Soundwave, and Soundwave, who’s staring at both of them and decides that maybe _not what it used to be_ isn’t the worst thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Will I ever stop writing fix-it fics where Soundwave is stuck in an alternate dimension and his love interest(s) have to help him?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549734)
> 
> No.


	6. Day 6: "Abilities" (IDW Soundwave & Ratbat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: "Abilities" Soundwave can’t sleep. Ratbat helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can y'all believe today's fill was originally gonna be some Prowl/Soundwave fluff where Soundwave and Prowl hardline and fall asleep to the sound of each other's thoughts...smh
> 
> cw: canon typical racism (against beastformers), power imbalances, slight references to past abuse, Soundwave and Ratbat's unhealthy relationship.
> 
> Also, super light TMA references/imagery in regards to the connection between corruption and metaphorically nasty people.
> 
> Sorry, Soundwave.

They’re alone.

And Soundwave _hates_ being alone with him. But the cassettes have all been deployed to scout the newly established Autobot outpost at the edge of the sector, and Ratbat…

Ratbat is back _early._

Soundwave examines Ratbat’s work with far more scrutiny than he would the other cassettes. He _did_ give Ratbat a slightly smaller area to scout—not out of sentiment, but pragmatism. Ratbat’s no spy and he hasn’t displayed any inclinations to _learn_ , and giving him the same workload as the others would just mean the rest of the cassettes would be required to directly pick up the slack. And then _they_ would (rightly) complain. This way, they’ll still complain, but far less than otherwise.

It’s an unwinnable situation.

He _could_ just kill Ratbat. It’s not like any of the others would make a fuss—Starscream might, but Soundwave stopped caring what Starscream thought the moment the Senate fell. The only other thing keeping him from reaching out and snuffing the former Senator’s spark…is fear.

Fear, and spite.

Ratbat’s gaze is heavy. Familiar. Were it not for the reassuring knowledge that their roles are irrevocably reversed, Soundwave would have slipped back into old, deferring mannerisms. As it stands, _he_ is the one scrutinizing reports.

And he’s despairing at the fact that Ratbat’s work is—in this particular situation, at least—impeccable. Perhaps it _is_ time to assign him a heavier workload.

But for now, he and Ratbat are alone.

“Satisfied?” Ratbat asks, drawing out the last syllable a second longer than strictly necessary. Then: _“Boss?”_

Soundwave has to bite back a snarl. He tolerates the cassettes’ friendly nicknames, but coming from Ratbat’s mouth it’s just…

Ratbat’s mouth isn’t articulated enough to form a proper smirk. Instead, he offers a grimace, and the rank smugness rolls off him in waves.

“Or would you prefer _master?”_

Ratbat’s perched on the edge of Soundwave’s desk. Soundwave is well within his rights to order the cassette to dock. That would keep Ratbat silent for the night, at least until Soundwave slips into recharge and Ratbat manually ejects himself.

In the cassette’s absence, Soundwave had planned to institute a hard defrag—he’s been working at suboptimal levels recently. If Ravage or the birds had been the first to arrive, Soundwave would have gone ahead and done it anyway, or Soundwave might have requested a hardline connection, allowing the currents of his cassettes’ thoughts to lull him into restorative sleep.

“Silence,” Soundwave says, instead, and takes a moment to _curse_ the fact that he’d determined, all those years ago, to treat Ratbat the same he would any other cassette.

Because he’s _not._

The others are _strong_ —forged in battle and desperation. Any one of them is worth ten of Ratbat. Ratbat is slippery, developed in opulence and excess. Vile.

Soundwave should have left him for dead.

He decides to ignore Ratbat. With any luck, the cassette will tire of bothering him (unlikely) and simply seek out a dock to recharge (also unlikely, but he can hope). He accepts the report with a curt nod and sends it to the queue for Megatron to examine at his leisure.

“Ratbat: dismissed,” Soundwave says, when it’s clear the former Senator is content to leer at him. Ratbat huffs.

 _“Really,_ Soundwave? We’ve known each other _nearly_ as long as you’ve been associated with those…creatures. There’s no need to act so formal.”

 _“_ Ratbat: should look in a mirror.” He picks up a datapad at random and begins to work. It’s a battle plan he’s unable to complete without input from Starscream, who’s been dragging his heels. Typical.

“And who do I have to thank for this…upgrade?” Ratbat steps forward, claws digging into the ‘pad screen. “If I didn’t know you better, I would say you bore _hostility_ towards me.”

Soundwave doesn’t fight the urge to roll his optics.

“And after all I did for you.”

Ratbat flutters his wings. It’s eerily reminiscent of the way Laserbeak shakes after getting out of an oil bath. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten everything I did for you.” Ratbat’s voice is slick with insincerity. “Without my guidance, you and those animals would have been left to rot in the Dead End until the Institue sniffed out your location.”

Soundwave ignores him and contemplates the viability of simply stuffing Ratbat in the vents. He shuts off the datapad.

This—the banter, the knowing gazes, the barbed comments—are all a game to Ratbat. A game, until recently, Soundwave had been convinced he had won.

Now, he’s not so sure.

It’s perhaps the first time Soundwave hates his work ethic. In preparation for tonight’s (cancelled) deep defrag, he’d pushed himself to finish all the relevant work for the next three cycles—the earliest he’d anticipated one of the cassettes returning.

Short of storming out of the room and demanding to assist Shockwave in his latest macabre project, Soundwave has nothing to do.

“Do you remember those long nights in the Senate building?” Primus, he hates it when Ratbat _croons_ like this. “No mater how late it was, you never could recharge unassisted. Too many _minds,_ you said. So noisy…so… _undisciplined.”_

Soundwave slams the datapad down. A small, spiteful part of him is pleased when Ratbat jumps in surprise.

_“What does Ratbat want?”_

There’s the grimace again.

Ratbat had long mastered obscuring all but the most fetid thoughts from Soundwave—not usually a problem. But now he—deliberately, Soundwave knows—pushes a thought forward, and Soundwave recoils.

“I only wish to help you,” Ratbat murmurs. _“Master.”_

“Do not call me that.”

“Hm.” Ratbat eyes the datapad’s cracked screen. “I know I am no substitute for those foul pets you call your friends, but I _am_ familiar enough to allow you to recharge.”

_“No.”_

“You can’t think you’ve outgrown me,” Ratbat says. “Or is it an unconscious prejudice against us lowly beastformers? What would _Ravage_ think?”

“Soundwave: would not hardline with Ratbat if Ratbat was the last mecha in the universe.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

“Soundwave: would rather hardline with Optimus Prime.” He pauses, meets Ratbat’s optics directly. “With _Shockwave.”_

 _“Ouch.”_ Ratbat bends a wing and pretends to examine his proto-claws. “My point stands. Anti-beastformer sentiments are nothing to be _ashamed_ of, Soundwave. In fact—”

“Ratbat: disgusting, _vile,_ mind.”

Ratbat blinks.

“And?” He nips at Soundwave’s fingers and displays that obnoxious grimace-smirk when Soundwave jerks his hand away. He’s gotten under Soundwave’s plating and he _knows it._ “That never stopped you before.”

“Before, Soundwave had no _choice.”_

The unconvincing, faux innocence slides away and something familiar takes its place, and Ratbat meets Soundwave’s optics.

“I don’t see anyone else here ready to ease you into recharge. A _real_ recharge—not those catnaps you take when you think no one’s looking.”

Soundwave finds he has no comeback for that.

Ratbat preens. He’s won, and he knows it.

“Manual defragmentation: not off the table.”

“And leave little old me wide awake, with all these sensitive plans laying around?” Ratbat’s laugh is oily. Soundwave hates it. “I wasn’t going to mention it, but Jazz sent a communique to me last week. And it is _terribly_ difficult to refuse an offer from a mech the late Sentinel Prime regarded highly enough to recruit into his personal security force.”

“Jazz: has better things to do than recruit _Ratbat._ ”

Ratbat’s optics flash. He feigns offense, allowing Soundwave a second to wallow in non-existent victory. 

“He _might.”_ Ratbat says, but there’s no venom in the words.

Soundwave sighs. He locks the datapad and shoves it into his subspace.

Ratbat follows him to the berth.

Soundwave takes small comfort in the knowledge that at least the imminent connection between them will ensure he wakes the _instant_ Ratbat stirs. The others—Ravage, the birds, even the twins—would have been granted access to cut off his connection once he drifted off to sleep.

Not Ratbat.

He doesn’t discount the idea that Ratbat might use this opportunity to exhaust him even further—to allow Soundwave to enter recharge for an hour, before waking him, perpetuating an endless cycle of recharge deprivation and poor choices. Soundwave pushes his distaste for Ratbat’s presence aside and really _looks_ at the cassette’s mind (yes, he’ll be required to do just that in a moment, in a far more nauseatingly thorough way) and is pleased to see Ratbat is actually _tired._

Hopefully, too tired to torment Soundwave for much longer.

Soundwave thinks longingly of a deep defrag. Another time—when the others come back, and he can assign one of them to be online with Ratbat at all times.

Soundwave sends the command to activate the hardline ports in his wrists. If nothing else, the implied threat of having his hands so close to Ratbat’s miniaturized, delicate frame will be an additional deterrent against any schemes the cassette is considering.

Maybe.

Ratbat takes his sweet time unspooling his cord. As a last-ditch protest, Soundwave refuses to assist with the actual connection, but Ratbat has clearly been perfecting his claws’ dexterity.

Ratbat’s claw scrapes the delicate sensors of Soundwave’s port as he works to finish the connection. Deliberately? Soundwave wouldn’t put it past him.

There’s a quiet _click,_ and Ratbat gleefully grants Soundwave secondary and partial teritiary access to his systems. Soundwave’s never been granted primary access.

He tries not to think about all the times he had given Ratbat full control over his systems. _That,_ at least, is a chapter in their relationship that is long over, and it is one Soundwave will never revisit.

Smugness oozes across the connection. It’s a thick, yellow-green sludge that threatens to overwhelm him before he forces it to settle.

And then it becomes predictable _._

And then in the worst way, it becomes _safe._

It cuts through the clouds of the presence of every other Decepticon on the base. Reluctantly, Soundwave accepts the solidity of Ratbat’s rancid, stinking mind.

And then Ratbat is the only being in the entire universe that Soundwave can hear.

Wrapped in a smug embrace, Soundwave and Ratbat drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I PROMISE tomorrow's fill will be happy. In fact, it'll be a continuation of the prowlcoswave ficlet from day 5.


	7. Day 7: "Redemption" (IDW, Ravage & Soundwave)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Ravage, taking in this strange little outlier was…not a regret. 
> 
> Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Yes,_ this is late, _yes_ this chapter was supposed to be a sequel to the prowlcoswave infraspace one, yet. Here we are.

There was very little Ravage regretted in his life.

He didn’t even regret quitting his ‘job’ with the Senate. Nor did he regret roping the birds into his scheme to abandon their functions. It wasn’t like they had complained—no matter the hardships of the Dead End, Ravage knew they would prefer this over their previous lives.

Taking in this strange little outlier was…not a regret.

Not yet.

It wasn’t that Ravage _disliked_ him (whatever his name was). In fact, when the outlier was coherent, he downright enjoyed the mech’s company. Even when he clung to Ravage, pummeled on all sides by sensations Ravage could never hope to understand, Ravage didn’t dislike him.

It was simply a matter of practicality. The outlier consumed more energon than all of them combined, and their pooled savings had long run dry, leaving all four of them dependent on government-distributed energon rations. And of course, beastformers weren’t _allowed_ to redeem the ration vouchers until the last half hour of the cycle, and by that time the dispenser was usually reduced to half rations. If that.

Ravage was curled on the outlier’s chest. He wasn’t sure if it was a byproduct of the mech’s abilities, or if it was simply the fact that his systems were constantly overtaxed _(adding_ to the fuel burning, Ravage noted dourly), but his frame was delightfully warm, and made for an optimal perch from which to ponder their current predicament. And if he butted his snout against the outlier’s neck, or pawed at his armor when he began to tremble, well. It was a mere side benefit.

Primus. He was getting attached _._

He had swiped the communal datapad from Laserbeak earlier in the cycle and was scanning the job offerings. Few places would hire mechs outside of their function, and even fewer would even _consider_ a beastformer.

Ravage supposed that if it came to it, he could get another job serving drinks. It wasn’t the _worst_ job in the world—were it not for the entitlement of the Senate, thinking they could pet his audials simply because he walked on four legs instead of two—Ravage might have found it tolerable. And the _gossip_ …

He wondered if Cybertron’s general populace was any different.

Probably not. 

A hand on his neck startled Ravage out of his thoughts. He didn’t quite manage to stifle the reflexive snarl at having his personal space invaded, and the culprit—the little outlier, staring up at him with wide, frightened optics—flinched and jerked his hand away.

“Sorry,” Ravage said, and was a little disappointed. He rather liked it when the mech rubbed his neck. And ears. “I didn’t hear you wake up.”

“I can do it,” the outlier said. “I can get the energon for you.”

Ravage blinked.

“You don’t even know your name. _Or_ your home town. _”_

“Rodion,” the mech said. “I think.”

“Well, if you’re going to pick one, I suppose Rodion isn’t the worst place to be from. Though they _might_ be a little more understanding if you said Petrex.”

“‘Petrex’?”

“Never mind.” Ravage wasn’t in the mood for an impromptu geography lesson. Rodion would be fine as the mech’s origin (privately, Ravage wasn’t sure if the mech actually knew the names of any other Cybertronian polities _besides_ Rodion.) “So you’re from Rodion, at least until you remember something different. You still need a name.”

“Oh.” The mech frowned, and Ravage felt a pang of sympathy. He decided against mentioning all the additional steps—holding himself together long enough to make the trek to the distribution center, stand in line with the throngs of other mechs, speak to the worker _without_ letting it slip that he was an outlier, collect his allotted cubes, and make his way back to Ravage and the birds.

But he wanted to help. That was more than Ravage could say for most.

Ravage batted the mech’s arm. Obligingly, the outlier raised his hand and began to scratch behind Ravage’s audials.

Perhaps in time, the mech could pull it off. He was smart—brilliant, in his own way—with a stubborn streak that put Buzzsaw to shame. He could do it.

Ravage rested his chin on his paws and powered off his optics, and decided that no, he definitely didn’t regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ravage's 'job' serving drinks/working in food service was inferred from his line in RID #22: "So I said "'Cybertron's salvation'? Yeah right. You want the energon, Senator, get it yourself. I'm not going back in there. Not today."


End file.
